And having said this, she moved off, leaving her bridegroom in a very whimsical state of doubt as to the cause of a coldness of demeanour which certainly appeared very extraordinary to him. Of her vehement love for him he felt it absolutely impossible to doubt. For what but vehement love could lead anybody of good landed property to permit the offer of her hand to be made to a gentleman? And moreover he certainly was conscious that in the present case there was nothing very extraordinary in the fact. Wherefore, then, such coyness? “It may be,” thought he, “that her great reading may have brought her acquainted with some of the many instances, which we all know must have existed, of coldness arising on the part of the husband, from the too passionate fondness of the wife.”
“Poor thing!” he feelingly exclaimed in soliloquy, as he walked up and down the well-shorn lawn; “poor thing! if this is the case, I really ought to be only the more tender to her.”
Mrs. Mathews meanwhile mounted her corkscrew staircase with the respectable deliberation acquired by fifty years of existence; and then she seated herself in her queer-looking chair, at her queer-looking table, tolerably well satisfied with herself, and with the manner in which she had set about beginning her conjugal existence.
Indeed she felt much disposed to believe that she should find her Mr. Mathews as little troublesome as it was well possible for a husband to be; and this confidence in the future caused her to look round on the rude and uncouth apartment which had been for so many years the scene of her life’s chief history, with a very comfortable reliance that it would be the scene of her life’s chief history still.
Nor was she without a fair portion of that pleasant hope which is probably enjoyed by all newly-married ladies who have been fortunate enough to secure a liberal allowance of pin-money, when they sit down for the first time after their marriage, and meditate in solitude upon the best and most agreeable manner of spending it.
Numerous as was her queer and miscellaneous collection of books, she perceived, as she looked around her with a businesslike and scrutinising eye, that there was still room for many hundreds more; nay, as her fancy luxuriated in the conscious power of acquisition, she began to meditate on the possibility of adding to her space by a bold inroad on a laundry, to which, though now approached by a different staircase, access might be obtained by means of knocking down an old wall, which could be done easily with such means as she had at her disposal.
And assuredly at this point of her meditation, she very nearly breathed a secret blessing on the early frailty of her husband: for, but for this marvellous discovery of the existence of Master Stephen Cornington, could she ever, by possibility, have hoped to achieve any of the mighty deeds with which she now sat regaling her fancy? Most certainly these first hours of wedded solitude were very happy hours to Mrs. Mathews.
There stood stretching its very uncomely but most convenient length before her, the huge and heavily-burdened old table at which all her happiest hours had been spent for the last five-and-thirty years!
And what ugly-looking volumes are those which form that massive block of books set upright, and without any other support than their own solidity?
Those, gentle render, are Mary King’s old lexicons. She has much affection, much respect, much gratitude for those dusky companions of her long years of solitude; and well she may, for they have been, her preceptors, her tutors, her ever-present and ever-constant friends. for be it known that though Mary King, ns she truly averred, had been taught, nothing, she, had contrived somehow or other to learn everything. No! not so not, quite everything; but fervent inclination, sled fast will, and unwearying perseverance had enabled her to acquire very much.
Few women, perhaps, in any land have ever made themselves so thoroughly acquainted with Latin; she had never indeed composed any nonsense verses, and might, if put to it, have sometimes blundered about quantities; but she read the language with perfect facility.
To any one, who has really attained this power, the acquisition of Italian, Spanish, and French is a, work of no great difficulty, and to her it, might, have seemed like a matter of mere idle amusement, had it not been for the importance she attached to the business of collecting around her the tools (as she called these varieties of human speech) which were necessary to put her in easy communication with the thoughts other fellow-creatures.
But though she could devour a volume in either of these languages with as much case and as much pleasure! as if it were written in her own, it is move than probable that, had she attempted to pronounce half-a-dozen words in either of them, no Frenchman, Spaniard, or Italian would have been found capable of guessing with any tolerable degree of success what she was about.
But on this point she ran no risk of discomfiture, for the immense perseverance and ardent energy of purpose which had enabled her to acquire all she knew, wore not more remarkable, or more strikingly indicative of the peculiarity of her character, than was the firm resolve to keep these, acquirements unknown. This fondly-cherished mystery was probably adopted at first because she lea red the, ridicule which such out-of-the-way pursuits might bring upon her, but as she got on perhaps, and felt how lofty was the isolated point to which she bad climbed, she might have shrunk from being stared at as a thing to wonder at. Nor is it quite impossible that she might in some degree have shared the feeling attributed to misers, whose sweetest moments are said to be those during which they cheer their souls in solitude by the contemplation of their hidden treasures.
Whatever might have been the motive for keeping her learned labours secret, the result answered well as a means of happiness; for nothing but the unbroken solitude and perfect leisure of hours, days, weeks, and years, could have enabled her to achieve what she had done. Nor is it easy to question the wisdom of a system which produced such unceasing enjoyment. Even difficulties, and they did sometimes occur, gave less pain in the struggle than pleasure in the conquest.
After mastering Latin, which was certainly a long and laborious business, the making herself thoroughly familiar with German was her hardest task. But she achieved it; and if ever she “purred applause” while meditating upon her own patient labours, it was when she was luxuriating in the untameable originality of German thinking.
But to advance, as we must now do, from Mary King to Mrs. Mathews, it may be observed that in this, her first tête-à-tête with herself in that character, she showed both her good sense and her good temper by thinking so much less of poor stupid Mr. Mathews himself than of the important advantages she was likely to derive from her union with him. The power of buying books and maps, though very important, and most exceedingly agreeable, was perhaps out-weighed in value by the increased instead of the restricted personal liberty, which she should enjoy in consequence of this important change in her condition. The newspaper readings had already commenced, and evidently with extreme satisfaction on both sides; and a less acute observation, and a less sanguine spirit than her own might have found wherewithal to render meditation on the future very consolatory.
CHAPTER X.
I WOULD strongly recommend to any of my fair readers, about to enter the holy state of matrimony, that they should at first setting off act upon the same principle that Mrs. Mathews did; namely, that they should begin as they intend to go on. Had she not done this she might have found it very difficult at a later period to have established such a system of liberty as to the disposal of her own time as she subsequently enjoyed; and in truth her perfect success in obtaining this, together with the evident satisfaction which the new order of thing’s produced to her father, afforded her the reward which she so justly merited in sacrificing her own wishes for the very holy purpose of gratifying his.
The usual activity in dining out, which on all such occasions occurs in a country neighbourhood, did not fail to take place upon this; and many brides aged fifty, with less than half the acuteness of Mrs. Mathews, might have easily perceived the sly little quizzing glances which the young marriageable maidens of Weldon exchanged as th
ey contemplated the newly-married pair.
But nothing of this kind produced the slightest effect upon her, either hidden or apparent. Her case might have been likened to that of a person walking in a slight shower of rain under the shelter of a wide-spreading umbrella; she was aware of the shower, but she heeded it not, for no single drop reached her. And this gentle indifference on her part, together with the particularly quiet manner in which Mr. Mathews transferred himself and his personalities from his old home to his new one, made somewhat less than a nine days’ wonder of their wedding.
This state of things was exceedingly satisfactory to Mrs. Mathews, and she had very soon the comfort of almost forgetting that she was a bride; for sundry massive boxes had arrived by the luggage-train from London, and several very commodious shelves had found themselves places in odd corners of her sacred den for the accommodation of their contents.
But the perfect tranquillity of spirit which she enjoyed while watching the comfortable well-being of her father, and while indulging herself by trotting in secret, nearly all day long, on her own favourite hobby, was most unexpectedly and most completely interrupted by the arrival of the following letter by the Indian mail, addressed to Miss King, Weldon Grange, Hertfordshire, England:
“MY DEAR MARY KING, l’ It is not very likely that you should remember as well as I do a conversation which we once held together one fine summer evening upon a bench under a lime-tree at the south-west corner of your lawn at Weldon. The conversation, as was often the case between us, took rather a metaphysical turn, and we discussed together the Swedenborgian doctrine of spirits. I accused you of having a propensity to believe in supernatural agencies, declaring that many of your projects and undertakings had been suggested to you by some influence that seemed foreign to yourself. This fanciful notion of yours has often recurred to me; for the eighteen years and three-quarters which have elapsed since I last saw you have not passed over without frequent recollections of the few weeks which preceded them. Within the last few days, indeed, this doctrine of yours has so strangely taken possession of me that I suspect I have almost adopted your creed on the subject.
“I dare say you may have heard from my friends in your neighbourhood that upon my arrival at Madras, I became a partner in a banking-house, and that I subsequently married. All other important points in my history may be comprised in very few words. My wife died about eighteen months ago, leaving me one child, a little girl, who may now, however, be almost called a woman, for she will be seventeen her next birthday. It is concerning this child that the impulse above-mentioned has fallen upon me. I have a longing to speak of her to you which I cannot resist. And this impulse! Whence comes it, dear Mary King? Certainly not from any right that I have to trouble you on such a subject. But when I tell you, dear old friend, that I am assured by a trustworthy medical attendant that I am about to die, I feel sure that you will receive the appeal I make to you without any mixture of anger.
“I have, for some years, been in failing health; but my malady, they say, can be baffled no longer, and before many months are over, my poor little Janet is likely to be left very sadly alone in the world. On her mother’s side she has not, I believe, a single relation; and my brother James, who is still a bachelor, and a professor at a Scotch university, is the only relative that I know on my side.
“She will not, I flatter myself, be destitute of the means of living like a gentlewoman, although on this point I am not so well informed as I ought to be. I have been a partner in Moxley’s bank, at Madras, for above eighteen years; but I have never, as yet, received anything but income from it; my three partners being in the same predicament, and all being of opinion that we could not have drawn capital from the concern, without injuring it. At my death, however, the accounts will be gone into, and I am led to believe that my dear little girl will not have less than five, or it may be seven, thousand pounds. This is not very much; but it will, at least, make her independent, and may suffice, as I hope, to make her comfortable.
“Yet still her unprotected situation terrifies me. There are many persons here who are very kind to us; but not one to whom I can look with satisfaction as the protector of my orphan girl. I well remember what our acquaintance was, Mary King, how accidentally it began, and how abruptly it ended; and if you remember all this as well as I do, it is possible that you may consider my present application to you as foolish, unauthorized, and unjustifiable.
“But there are certain impressions left on my memory also, not so easily defined, but quite as ineffaceable. This may or may not be the case with you, and on this question hangs the success of my present petition to you on the behalf of my dear Janet.
“I have told her that it is my wish that she should go to England as soon as the affairs of the bank are sufficiently settled for her to know herself, poor child! what her amount of fortune is. I have also written to my worthy brother, who, I flatter myself, has not quite forgotten me, begging him to find her an asylum in the house of some Scotch cousin, or friend, till she is of age, or married.
“But though I have already taken these precautions to prevent the possibility that my child should be absolutely unknown to any one in Europe, yet one of those mysterious influences, of which we used to talk together, has so strongly impressed upon my mind the idea that you might feel sufficient interest for my girl to induce you to take charge of her for a few weeks upon her first arrival in England, that I have yielded to it, in spite of all that common sense could urge to the contrary.
“There is, I am assured, no chance whatever of my living long enough to receive your answer to this strange petition; nevertheless, I feel easier and happier since I resolved upon making it. All I will venture to urge upon you, however, as the dying request of your old acquaintance is that you should see my poor Janet before you decide upon the possibility, or impossibility, of letting her be with you for a week or two before she proceeds to Scotland.
“This is a long letter for me to write, Mary King, and it has taken three days to accomplish it. I have already given my child written instructions to proceed to Weldon as soon as possible after she reaches England, to lodge herself at the principal inn (is it still the “Hare and Hounds?”) and to send the little note, I have given to her for you, to the Grange.
“When you receive it I feel strongly tempted to believe that you will permit her to call upon you. Adieu, Mary! Forgive whatever you may have thought wrong in my conduct, either now or formerly.
“You will think but lowly of my decision of character when I tell you that I cannot quite make up my mind upon the question of being wrong or right, either now or then.
“Remember me kindly to your good father. I have heard of your both being well within the last month. Once more, Farewell!
“Yours truly,
“JOHN ANDEESON.”
Considering the philosophic tone and character of my heroine’s mind — and her mind really was of a philosophic tone and character — this letter produced a much more violent effect than might have been expected. Neither was the nature of the emotion more accordant with what might have been anticipated, than was its degree.
Those who have read the passages which have been given as extracts from her journal, when the image of John Anderson was most fresh upon her mind, might presume that this announcement of his approaching, or more probably of his actual death, would have affected her with feelings of deep sorrow and very mournful regret.
But nothing at all resembling this was the result. She had in truth so long, and so completely made up her mind to the fact that they were separated for ever, that no new idea, no fresh emotion, was produced by this letter on that score.
But there were other feelings produced by it, which, if not absolutely new, were now for the first time brought home to her heart with the soothing conviction that they were well founded, reasonable, and rational, and not the contemptible vapours of a love-lorn old maiden’s fancy.
This letter of John Anderson, together with the request i
t contained, at once convinced her common sense that she had not deluded herself. Notwithstanding his profound silence on the subject, it was certain that she had made an impression on his heart, and that, too, of a nature not only deep and enduring, but productive of very high esteem, and very perfect confidence.
Had Mrs. Mathews not entertained that high opinion of herself which has been already confessed to the reader, this proof of John Anderson’s attachment to her would not have been felt so sensibly But she had in truth suffered a great deal during the last twenty years of her life, from her doubts whether her vanity had not beguiled her into persuading herself that the said John Anderson had loved her though circumstances had prevented his telling her so.
Had these circumstances been different, had John Anderson been rich, and had she been poor, the steady silence on his part would have been very differently interpreted, and the impression left upon her mind would have been very different also. In that case, even believing that he had once loved her, Mary King would very speedily have conquered all sentimental regrets concerning him. But as the circumstances, financially speaking, were exactly the reverse between them, it was evident either that he did not love her well enough to make her his wife, OR that he had shrunk from making a proposal which might so easily have been interpreted as mercenary.
It was the uncertainty produced by this doubt, which had for so many years kept the question alive, and most tormentingly awake in her mind. There was no chance of any future meeting taking place to cure this, for his marriage had settled all doubts upon that point for ever; yet still the question was one of very exciting interest. She could but ill endure the feeling of self-contempt which the possibility of her having fancied herself beloved, when there was no such thing, brought with it. Yet with all her conscious self-control and power of mind, she had never been able to banish the subject so effectually from her memory, as to prevent its often tormenting her.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 385